Before the Fall
by luckly the dorkfish
Summary: "It was all because of his damn pride, and he took his anger out on the one person who did not deserve it. He knew he shouldn't have said it. As soon as the words had escaped past his treacherous lips, he instantly wished he could take them back. John had seriously screwed up, and he has no idea how he was going to fix it." I was also told this is OOC, so be mindful of that.
1. Mistakes

**Warnings: Johnlock, but not heavy Johnlock (it's established, but affection only really comes into play at the very end of the entire fanfiction), Unbeta'd, I wrote this because I really wanted to write some deep angst, and I'm not British**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.** **More notes at the end of Chapter.**

* * *

It was all because of his damn pride, and he took his anger out on the one person who did not deserve it. He knew he shouldn't have said it. As soon as the words had escaped past his treacherous lips, he instantly wished he could take them back. He would give anything to banish the look of absolute anguish that passed across Sherlock's angular features as he nodded and left the room. John had seriously screwed up, and he has no idea how he was going to fix it.

* * *

The day started out relatively normal. John had awoken to ebony curls tickling his nose and a comfortable weight settled along his right side. The blogger smiled and pressed a gentle kiss against the detective's lax forehead. He slowly extracted himself from Sherlock's constricting grasp and made his way to the kitchen to make his usual morning cuppa. He opened the refrigerator, took out the milk, but quickly discovered something odd about the liquid inside the plastic jug—or the solid mass that should have been milk. Somehow, the milk had solidified into a plastic-like substance with the same milky exterior. John angrily threw the milk away and decided to calm down with a nice cup of coffee instead, which would have been fine if there weren't eyeballs in the microwave. John blew out a slow breath to calm himself down. ' _No matter_ ,' he thought, ' _I'll just make some toast and go up to get dressed_.' As John made his way to the breadbox, he checked the empty container only to remember that he had made the last piece of toast yesterday. The blogger's patience, which had long since been exhausted, finally snapped as Sherlock made his way down the stairs, only in their sheet, and over to the couch to bemoan loudly that he was bored.

Just as John was about to say something he would probably regret, Sherlock's phone pinged with an incoming message. One long lanky arm unwound itself from the tangled sheet to bring the phone up to the detective's face. The infuriating man lunged from the couch, dropping the sheet, and ran up the stairs starkers all the while yelling down to John about a new case. Normally, Sherlock's antics would have stopped this infuriated mood, but with all the stress from work, the recent divorce from Mary, finding out that the baby wasn't his, and now being thrown back into Sherlock's insane lifestyle, John was at his breaking point. The blogger gripped the edge of the counter tightly as Sherlock breezed into the kitchen, now fully dressed, and looked into the fridge for the missing milk. He then unhelpfully informed John that they were out and that he would need to go and get some more. He then wanted to know why John wasn't dressed yet.

John slammed the breadbox closed, ignoring Sherlock's raised eyebrow, and stomped up the stairs to get dressed. The doctor, just to spite the detective, slowly put his clothes on and calmed down slightly in the process. When he finally made his way down the stairs, Sherlock had put on his signature coat and scarf and was waiting impatiently by the door, and, as soon as the detective saw the blogger, he was out the door making his way quickly down the stairs to hail the cab. John can't help but huff out an amused laugh, anger momentarily forgotten, as he makes his way down the stairs after his madman of a lover.

When the dynamic duo arrives at the crime scene, they are met with flashing blue and red lights. Sergeant Donovan snarls at Sherlock but begrudgingly lifts the tape for the two men. As soon as Sherlock steps foot into the small room, he effortlessly locates the scene of the crime, which just so happens to be a dimly lit, homely bathroom with beige walls, an earth toned bathmat on the floor, a large tub, a toilet beside the door, and two sinks that take up one side of the room. Lestrade meets the pair and begins debriefing them on the victim, Brian Barkley, but Sherlock tunes him out. Unlike he would normally do, Sherlock forgoes the body in order to walk over to the bathroom counter. There on the counter sits a broken razor with the blade separated from the rest of the debris. On the blade, in a small hole that would connect the screw to the razor, unseen by the rest of the populace there, Sherlock noticed specks of dried blood, which were hastily wiped away to avoid detection.

When his eyes eventually landed on the victim, Sherlock's mind began to formulate deductions based on what he could see and he already knew that the D.I. and his team had come to the wrong conclusion. ' _Army man in his mid-to-late 40's, still in seemingly good physical condition, skin slightly off-color with a pinkish hue, recently divorced_.' The amateur detective then picks up the deceased man's hand, checks under the man's fingernails, and unbuttons the man's shirt and notices what appears to be almost 200 scars littering the man's ribs and stomach, some old and others fresh. Lastly, he opens the victim's mouth and smells inside.

' _Almonds,'_ he thinks to himself. He quickly leaves that room; with Lestrade following close behind, and discovers an empty wine glass sitting beside Brian's bed. He picks up the glass, holds it up to the light, and on the rim, he sees the faint impression of lips. He again smells the inside of the glass and discovers the same trace of almonds present. When the amateur detective gazes at the room as a whole, he notices things that no one else seems to see. He notices the empty pill bottle that was not supposed to be empty for at least another two weeks, and he noticed the broken bar in the man's closet along with a rope thrown with out care on the floor beside a turned over stool. To others who could not see what Sherlock saw, they would have incorrectly assumed that the man had drowned in the shallow waters, but no, this man willingly drank cyanide poison periodically over the span of one week to kill himself. His next deduction weighs heavy on his chest as the thought: ' _Suicidal_ ,' appears before his eyes.

When Sherlock does not instantly begin spouting off deductions as he normally would, Lestrade huffs out an expectant, "Well?" John decides at that moment to wonder into the bedroom, but notices that something seems to be off with the detective. It is almost as Sherlock's entire world has been thrown off balance. The amateur detective began spouting off deductions at a rapid fire, panicked, pace, barely stopping to take a breath, leaving Lestrade reeling. "So, wait a minute…Brian Barkley committed suicide? There was no fowl play?" Something snaps in John at that word. Sherlock notices, as he always does, and scoffs, but somehow it's lacking its usual bite, "Obviously." Silence falls on the room and Sherlock crosses his arms over his chest seemingly lost in thought. Greg mumbled something about getting their statements, but John, feeling more than a bit frightened, exited the room quickly; leaving Greg feeling baffled.

The ebony haired man follows John through the deceased man's house until they reach the kitchen. There, John stops and doubles over trying his best to breathe calmly through the panic. "John? John, what's wrong?" The distressed man only grits his teeth and shakes his head while he says, "Leave off it, Sherlock." The detective's brow furrows and hesitantly asks, "John, please, I can tell from your accelerated breathing, perfuse sweating, and full body trembling that you seem to be in a state of panic. I just don't know what is wrong."

John's misplaced anger, which had accumulated over many months, surges forward suddenly and it momentarily overwhelms him. He slams his fist into the wall, startling Sherlock, and he rounds on the detective, looking him square in the eye as he scornfully says, "You want to know? Really? The great Sherlock Holmes has deemed my mundane emotions as something significant? Don't I feel _so_ special?" Each word that spills out of John's mouth is laced with pure disdain and bitterness. Sherlock opens his mouth to ask yet another question but John cuts him off, "Do you realize how close I was to becoming Brian Barkley? I was miserable for two years after your death, and I wanted to end it all. I had everything prepared. I was planning to go through with it until I met Mary. Mary was wonderful and sweet, and I was in love with her. You came back and everything went to hell. I found out on my fucking wedding day that she was sleeping with another man and the baby is his. I couldn't get over you, and my marriage fell apart because of it, but what do you care, right? Sherlock Bloody Holmes doesn't have or need friends, never mind relationships." Sherlock takes an almost imperceptive step back and stutters out, "John, I-I'm sorry. I thought things were okay. I don't unders—."

"You don't understand? Of course you don't fucking understand. It's because you're a freak! God, Sherlock. What the hell is wrong with you?! You take, and you take, until there is nothing left for you to take and I am left with absolutely nothing! Nothing is ever mine. You think you can do these things, but you can't keep doing them, Sherlock!" Sergeant Donavon, having long since entered before this heated argument took place, looked as if she were a bucket of popcorn away from enjoying a great show. John ignored her in favor of taking a moment to look at the detective. He bitterly laughed at the trace of tears he saw and sarcastically continued with, "Grow the fuck up, Sherlock. Stop the act. I'm not going to continue playing these games. I'm sick and tired of the bullshit. Just piss the fuck off."

By the time John finished his tirade, he was panting and his face was red, but as his dark blue eyes bore into Sherlock's watery, verdigris gaze, a voice in his head **screamed** at him that, ' _Something is wrong_.'

As he finally took a closer look at Sherlock, the trace of tears now threatened to spill over, and there was something absolutely wrong about the way the detective held his once proud frame. John's eyes widen at the sight of the man standing a few feet in front of him, his anger now long since forgotten. "Sherlock?" John inquires, but the detective seems to be lost in a world of his own and unable to hear him. When the doctor's mind finally caught up with what he said, he gasped at his own brutality. He took a small step forward and extended his hand to comfort his lover but Sherlock no longer walks forward to meet him halfway. Sally decided to take that moment to cackle out her disturbing glee at seeing the detective crumble. The spell over Sherlock breaks at the sounds and as he blinks, a few tears fall, which he had no intention of wiping away. John catches a small sense of anguish that passes over Sherlock's features as he nods and turns to walk away.

As John once again reaches out to comfort the detective, he briefly makes contact with Sherlock's signature Belstaff coat until the ebony haired man wrenches himself out of John's grasp, and the detective's long legs propel him out the bedroom door and down the stairs at a pace faster than John can keep up with. The guilt he is now feeling nearly sends him toppling to the floor, but he catches his footing at the last moment. John races to the opened window and watches as Sherlock disappears around the corner and out of sight.

The weight of John's outburst finally seems to hit the blogger, and he realizes just how royally he has screwed up.

* * *

 **Notes: Hello! I actually did a little bit of research on Cyanide poisoning. I couldn't include all of it, but what I put was just the basic understanding. Being on a college campus and researching, "How to kill someone with cyanide poisoning" isn't the best idea I've ever had... Fortunately I didn't get in trouble, but my roommate was a little worried about her safety for awhile. It's hard to tell normal people that you are writing gay fanfiction about murder and sadness and it not come off as strange.**

 **Okay, so I know I've been promising a Disney crossover, but this idea was nagging at me for MONTHS. So, I started writing. It was only originally going to be about 1000 words long, but then more and more ideas would appear and I may have gone 6,000+ words over my original idea. This rating most likely will go up. I will add trigger warnings when they are due, but for now, it's just getting started. I wanted to get rid of some of my own demons and I thought, 'What better way than to write them down as my favorite characters!' That was probably not my best idea. I caught some of my own feels when writing this. Another thing, a lot of people left wonderful reviews! I don't know if I should write them on here or just private message (I think I'll go for private messaging. I'm not sure yet).**

 **I, in all honesty, hope you will enjoy this even if there will be some sadness (it's just mostly sadness. I've been mean to these characters). Anyway! I hope you enjoy. If you see any mistakes, they are mine (I have no beta) and if you would, please point them out to me!**


	2. The Fall

**************TRIGGER WARNINGS: mentions of Suicide attempt, self-harm, and drug use**************

 **Warnings: self-harm, mentions of suicide attempt, mentions of drug use, Johnlock, but not heavy Johnlock (it's established, but affection only really comes into play at the very end of the entire fan fiction), Unbeta'd, I wrote this because I really wanted to write some deep angst, and I'm not British**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

* * *

He had been missing for three days now. Nothing in the flat had been moved, but John had discovered, upon returning to the flat, a few changes. The microwave had been scoured and cleaned of all experiments, case files no longer littered the floor, and milk and bread were now stocked inside their respective places. John had tried and failed many times to contact Sherlock, to find some way to apologize, to somehow make this right, but no calls were going through. Three days, and there was still no sign of Sherlock. _'What have I done?'_ The grievous doctor asks himself for what seemed like the millionth time that day.

On the first night, he was plagued with nightmares; each horrid dream was played on a constant, endless loop of Sherlock's agonized face. When the second day came and went, John began calling, searching frequently visited places, and asking around if anyone had seen the detective, but came up empty handed. John called the ebony haired man's phone for the one-hundredth time that evening without getting an answer. The nightmares never ceased and as John watched the sun rise on the third day, he finally swallowed his pride and called Mycroft Holmes.

"Ah. John Watson. To what do I owe this pleasure?" The umbrella twirling, British Government drawls out in an uninterested air.

"Mycroft, have you seen Sherlock?"

There's a pause on the other end of the line and when the elder Holmes finally does speak, the careless mask has been dropped and his voice sounds low and threatening, "I saw him when he left the crime scene, but after that, he has been avoiding the CCTV cameras. Sherlock has managed to successfully disable the tracking device I have installed, and thus far, all of my efforts to contact him have failed." Here Mycroft seems to take a calming breath before he coldly adds, "I don't see why you should particularly care." John became affronted by the insinuation and states, "You don't see why—Mycroft, I love him."

"You love him? Oh please. You have only hurt him since the moment he returned. I _begged_ him not to go back to see you, but he was insistent and eager to be reunited with you. Even after letting you physically beat him, asking him to be your best man, and marrying Mary, you have the _audacity_ to insinuate he doesn't care about you?" In this moment John can see why he is labeled the 'Ice Man', every word is laced with icy bitterness and spite as he continues with, "Not to mention all the other deplorable things you said to him. You have no idea what he's gone through, Doctor Watson. You have no idea the pain he's gone through to make sure you could remain happy." The man once again tries for indifference, but it sounds too forced as he quietly says, "You've had your fun, but now I think it's time for the games to end."

When John tries to interject, Mycroft quickly cuts him off, "Fix this. I have warned you before and believe me when I say this, John, but you will not like me as an enemy. Continue on as you have and that's exactly what I will become." With that ominous threat, the line goes dead.

As the sun sets that evening, John redialed the familiar number, letting it ring until he was met with Sherlock's bored tone directing him to leave a message without being tiresome about it. When the beep sounded, John exhaled an obvious distressed sigh and began to speak, "Sherlock? Uh…listen… I-I didn't mean what I said. Please…Please just come home. I don't know how I can make this right, but I am willing to try. I'm so sorry, love. Please call me back. I love you." If the guilt from before was bad, this was an entirely new beast. It gnawed at him until he had to grip the edge of the table to keep him from falling to the floor. Tears he had managed to keep at bay until this point slip past tightly closed lids and a shuddering sob escapes despite his best efforts to stifle it. _'God, I hope I can fix this.'_

* * *

He had resisted the urge to resort to past methods of destruction for three days. He removed and disabled the tracking device on his phone and he ignored any and all texts or calls from everyone, especially John. He stayed with members of his trusted homeless network and he had managed to stay true to his promise to stay clean despite all the things in his mind reminding him that the one person he loved more than anything now hated him. The only thing that kept Sherlock from the self-destruction he craved was the thought of John's disappointed face if he found out if Sherlock had fallen back into old habits. That all changed on the third day.

Up until this point, he had resolutely avoided thinking of anything to do with _that day_. He was prepared to delete the entire experience but when he ventured into his Mind Palace to the door that was marked, " **DO NOT ENTER STAY AWAY** ," opened and all the memories from the last few days came flooding back to him. The man gasped at the sudden onslaught of emotions that seemed to rush forward all at once. John's angry face as he viciously spat the word freak seemed to project off of every wall of his mind palace's walls.

Sherlock can feel something in his chest constrict and tighten as the anguish once again washes over him. The weight of the past few days causes him to crumble to the cold alley floor. When the initial shock of the moment passed, a lingering, hollow feeling envelopes the detective. The ebony haired man gasps for air as he stumbles blindly to his feet and his legs carry him to the darkest part of the alleyway. He somehow manages to type in a number he had never truly forgotten, and with shaking, stumbling fingers, he manages to type out a brief message and hits send.

After a few hours, or maybe it was only several minutes, a looming figure slowly approaches the amateur detective. The man says nothing, but he smugly smiles at the detective's anguished appearance before he passes a bag filled with a white substance of the 7% variety. The ebony haired man all but throws the money at the man as he flees the darkened alleyway.

* * *

Sherlock stares at the fresh cuts that now litter his pale skin before he carves one, last vertical gash into his arm before he drops the razor blade onto the ground and stares blankly at the needle sitting just a few feet away from him. He thinks back to what John said just two days ago. As he remembers the hateful words that fell from thinned, angry lips, his mind seems to play them on repeat along with all the other insults his brain could unhelpfully supply (which just-so-happened to be them all, he could never truly delete them no matter how hard he had tried). The memory grew stronger and stronger, and the detective tried to block out the sound by placing his hands roughly into raven curls and pulling. John's hatred only continued to reverberate against his mind palace's walls louder and louder until he hastily tied the tourniquet and forcefully grabbed the needle, poised just out of reach of his inner elbow—ready to be plunged in, with trembling and clumsy fingers. The self-loathing only mounted as he realized that John was right. He was a freak... A machine... A monster. He had somehow ruined it all. There was no point in staying anymore. He had failed and lost the one person he had promised to protect. _'Well,'_ he thought, _'There is still one more thing I can do,_ ' his mind supplied darkly. John would be happier without him here.

 _'This would be it_ ,' he decided with a determined nod. ' _This is where the story finally ends.'_ He has no intention of surviving this fall. This would be his final bow. With this thought in mind, he plunged the needle into his arm.

* * *

 **This was basically me working out some of my personal demons. On a related note, if you ever feel like Sherlock, please talk to someone. Always keep fighting, everyone. You are important. I love you all.**

 **On a lighter note, I hope you liked this chapter despite all the angst. :)**


	3. Wait

**Warnings: self-harm, mentions of suicide attempt, mentions of drug use (previous chapters), Johnlock, but not heavy Johnlock (it's established, but affection only really comes into play at the very end of the entire fan fiction), Unbeta'd, I wrote this because I really wanted to write some deep angst, and I'm not British**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

 **More notes at the end of the chapter.**

* * *

Bliss. That is exactly what he is feeling now. There are no worries. There is no pain. He _finally_ doesn't feel as though his heart is being ripped from his chest anymore. Due to the failed overdose, his mind palace is in shambles, but no matter, he can rebuild again. He doesn't mind reconstructing if it means he doesn't have to feel the earth shattering pain anymore. The only thing he seems to feel now, however, is confusion. He fully expected to die from the injection and the cuts that he had carved into his arm—which still sting badly and he can feel blood seep into his precious coat as he puts it on—but he finally feels as though he can _breathe_ again. Why did he escape from the alluring grasp of cocaine's sweet hold on him? There _has_ to be a reason. He wouldn't just give this up without probable cause. Sherlock's brow furrows as he tries to remember. Due to its state of disarray, the only thing his mind is able to give him on the topic is sandy blond hair and deep blue eyes. With just this thought alone, the picture is incomplete, and, to be completely honest, Sherlock does not actually care why he stopped. He's just happy that he was drawn back into cocaine's addictive arms. He shakes his head in the attempt to get rid of the dark blue eyes, but the earth is spinning too badly to do anything more than to lie on the cold, alleyway floor until it stops.

After a few minutes pass, and he finally feels as though he can somewhat stand on his own, the detective sways dangerously on wobbling legs, and he staggers out into the open without a care in the world. He can't even really remember why he was hiding in the first place, to be honest. All he can remember are the deep blue eyes from before staring at him with what appears to be disdain and hatred, but no matter. He had endured other people's scorn for approximately 30 years. The man with sapphire eyes can just join the rest of the other people on the list. He ignores the little voice in his mind that is screaming at him that he has forgotten something important as he looks around at his surroundings. No one knows London like Sherlock, and it became evidently clear as he stumbles north toward Baker Street in his state of dwindling intoxication.

Unbeknownst to the amateur detective, CCTV cameras are tracking his every move, every lurching step, as he gets closer and closer to Baker Street. Just before he can reach the signature black door, twenty minutes later, said door swings open, revealing a haggard and anxious John Watson. They stare at each other for a moment until the ebony haired man finally looks away; the sought after high long since gone, leaving only the feeling of anguish. John takes this moment to notice the changes in his lover, his normally pale skin now seems almost transparent in a ghostly pallor. The blogger takes a tentative step forward and reaches his hand out as if to touch the detective, but lets his hand fall when Sherlock takes an excessive step back.

"Sherlock, I—," John begins, but stops short when he realizes he has no idea how to even begin to apologize to the man that means more to him than anything else in this world. As John flounders around for the words to express his deep regret, it was at that moment, that Mycroft Holmes seemed to materialize out of thin air. The usually composed man looked as if he had gotten very little sleep the night before, and his panic became obvious to John when the doctor realized Mycroft drove himself; however, all of this changed when the British Government saw his little brother. The evident relief spreads across his face as he grabs the younger Holmes' arm and begins to drag him to the black car waiting at the curb. Panic surges through the blogger as the two men begin to leave Baker Street, and that is what finally causes John to take action, "Wait!"

Sherlock's footsteps falter slightly, but he quickly regains the pace he had set before. John races after the two brothers while saying, "Sherlock! Wait, please! I know I fucked up. I know I hurt you. I shouldn't have said what I did because I didn't mean it. I—I'm sorry." The younger Holmes stops momentarily and stares at the blogger until Mycroft steps between the two men, effectively ruining the moment, as he drags his younger brother to the parked car. When they reach the vehicle, the elder Holmes gently urges Sherlock into the passenger seat, closes the door, and walks around to the other side to get in. When John finally reaches the car, he proceeds to try and gain Sherlock's attention by pounding on the glass, but to no avail. The ebony haired man stares resolutely at anything other than the blogger as Mycroft starts the vehicle. John moves to run after the car as it begins to make its way down the street, but stops as the vehicle turns down onto another street, out of view.

* * *

"He was right."

Mycroft looks at his brother briefly and opens his mouth to deny the absurd statement, but Sherlock cuts him off in a lifeless, monotonous voice, "I just thought things would have been different this time, but it seems as though I'll always be the machine. I'm still just the freak." His voice cracks briefly and hurt shines through the uncaring mask as he continues with: "It was wrong of me to believe otherwise." The British Government tries to speak once more, but Sherlock suddenly slumps over into his brother's side, unconscious. Up until this moment, Mycroft assumed that Sherlock's unsteady footsteps were in direct correlation to the drugs, but now, as he takes in the pallid expression, his lethargic pulse, and his cold, clammy skin, the elder Holmes now realizes something else is wrong.

The British Government places a steadying hand on Sherlock's forearm only to discover that the beloved Belstaff is wet. The older man withdraws his hand in shock and quickly discovers that his once pale digits are now stained with red. _'Blood,'_ the older man's mind unhelpfully screams. Not for the first time in his life, Mycroft experiences true panic and terror. With an urgency that he usually denies himself, Mycroft accelerates the vehicle and speeds toward St. Mary's.

* * *

 **This, I tried to do research on on cocaine usage and blood loss, but it was pretty uninformative. I don't do drugs and I have never bled enough to pass out. I don't know how to be high. Sorry, everyone if it is inaccurate. I'm always open to suggestions, so if you have it, let me know! 'Cause I clearly don't know. I do know that when using Cocaine, from my research, that a high doesn't last long. It said it last from about 30 minutes to an hour.**

 **On blood loss, I do know that it is possible to become unconscious. That's pretty much the extent of my knowledge. I tried to stay away from medical stuff. I am an artist. I draw. I do not understand medical things.**


	4. It's All Fine

**Warnings: self-harm, mentions of suicide attempt, mentions of drug use (previous chapters), Johnlock, but not heavy Johnlock, Unbeta'd, I wrote this because I really wanted to write some deep angst, and I'm not British**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

 **More notes at the end of the chapter.**

* * *

John was in a state of panic. Someone from St. Mary's called a few minutes ago and just informed him that Sherlock was in the hospital. A few years ago, the pair decided that they would make the other their emergency contact. Sherlock saw no need to add Mycroft—he would always be the first to know anyway—and John knew Harry did not care. The inseparable two were like family anyway, so it was only the most logical step to take. Now, as John sat in a cab, racing toward St. Mary's, he was so glad that Sherlock had not had the time to change the information. When Sherlock left with Mycroft, John knew it would be nearly impossible to find the ebony haired man unless the elder Holmes wanted him to be found. While he was relieved to know where Sherlock was, he was concerned about the detective's safety.

Thousands of thoughts raced through the blond man's head as he drew closer to the hospital. 'God, I hope he's alright,' seemed to be playing on a constant loop in the blogger's mind. John sat rigidly on the edge of his seat watching as the hospital grew closer and closer as he anxiously waited to leave the confining vehicle. When the cab finally pulled up to St. Mary's hospital, John threw the money at the cabdriver and raced inside the building. From there, he asked the nurses were Sherlock was located and he was then directed to a waiting room. It was there that he came face to face with Mycroft Holmes.

As soon as the elder Holmes laid eyes on the other hollow-eyed man, his expression morphed into something ugly. Mycroft's usually impassive expression was overtaken by sheer resentment and anger. The elder man did not try to school his face into something civil as he walked up to the repentant blogger and turned his intense, omniscient gaze on John.

"What the hell are you doing here," Mycroft spews out. Taken aback by the other man's hostility, John takes a step back and stutters out, "I-I'm here for Sherlock! They called me and—." Mycroft, if it were possible becomes angrier and seethes, "You have no right to be here. After all that you've done? Sherlock has been through enough pain caused by your hands. All that he's worked for, everything that he has accomplished turned to ruin because of you."

John, having grown accustomed to a Holmes' wrath, squares his shoulders, ever the captain, and replies, "You told me to make it right. That's why I'm _here_ , Mycroft. That's what I'm trying to _do._ I know I've screwed up, but I love him. I just want to make it right." The elder man sneers at the word. " _Love?_ You _love_ him? So, that's what you were doing? Proving it to the man you _love_ by telling him that he is a freak? I'm sure that got the message across. Sherlock doesn't have friends, Doctor Watson. He only has you. He cares about your opinion, but as I've always said: caring is not an advantage and you've just proven my point."

"Mycroft—." Whatever John was about to say was cut short by a nurse's arrival. She walked up the British Government and blogger, gave a small smile, and looks down at her clipboard, "Family of Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes," John cuts in before Mycroft can say anything. The auburn haired man glares at the army doctor as he passes him, but John ignores the other man in favor of following the nurse as she leads them to Sherlock.

As the three of them shuffle into Sherlock's private room (no doubt due to Mycroft's influence), John felt his knees weaken when he finally lays eyes on the sleeping detective. Mycroft uncharacteristically lets relief overwhelm his facial features as he walks forward and lays a gentle hand on top of the younger brother's head. He bends down and whispers something to the younger man that John cannot hear, and smiles when Sherlock unconsciously leans into his brother's touch. The nurse breaks the moment as she softly clears her throat. Mycroft inclines his head as if to signal the others to follow him out into the hall so as to not disturb Sherlock. When they are away from the detective the nurse begins informing the two men what was being done to help Sherlock: "Hello, gentleman, my name is Grace and I will be Sherlock's primary nurse. Mr. Holmes has approximately thirty shallow cuts on his left wrist, which travel up and down his arm, and a laceration on his left forearm, which is about 18 inches long. We stitched up the big gash and gave him some antibiotics to try and ward off infection. Also, we found traces of cocaine in his system, which he is sleeping off now. We want to keep him for 72 hours under observation. Any questions?"

When both men shake their heads Grace informs the two men that she will be making her rounds to her other patients, but not to hesitate to find another nurse or the nursing station if they have any questions. With an assurance to do so, Grace leaves the two men alone.

John looks at Mycroft as he finally realizes what he has done. Sherlock. The man that he protected from the beginning of their friendship, the man he killed for, the man who died to save him…John broke him. He was doing so well with life. He had been clean for three years. When dark moods would fall, he would be tempted to cut again, but he didn't go back to it and John would always become so proud. John had reduced the once proud, strong detective to this.

Mycroft looks down his nose at the other man and sneers, "Ah. I see you've finally realized the damage you have caused. Did you know that is how he views himself? As a machine and a freak? He finally allowed himself to fall in love with you. After Moriarty and Mary, he didn't think that would be an option for him. He wanted so desperately for you to be different. He wanted to prove everyone wrong, but in the end it didn't really matter, did it? You were just like everyone else."

As the elder man turns to leave, John grabs his arm out of desperation, "Mycroft, how do I fix this? What do I need to do? I have to fix this. I can't lose him." The older Holmes wretches his arm out of the doctor's grasp and glares at the blogger, "If it were up to me, you wouldn't be able to. In fact, I would love nothing more than to ship you as far from Sherlock as possible, but I know my brother. Despite all of my warnings, you are Sherlock's goldfish. As he has so irrationally proven, he would rather die than live in a world were you do not care about him."

John felt his knees turn to jelly at the sudden sense of hope that surges through him. However, the feeling is dampened by fear as Mycroft steps forward and viciously states, "But keep this in mind, John. If you ever do anything like this again, you won't have to worry about gaining Sherlock forgiveness. You won't be able to worry about anything at all." Here the auburn haired man pauses for a moment to let his words sink in before he speaks again. If there were any doubt in John's mind of Mycroft's sincerity, all of those thoughts flew out the window as the elder man murderously says, "You will never be able to hide from me, John, and if by some chance you can, I will personally hunt you down and destroy you as slowly as I possibly can. Is that clear?" The blogger nods his head in clear understanding and Mycroft thinly smiles and says, "Excellent. I'm glad we understand each other." The British Government pauses for a moment and steps back into the room before smiling softly, "Ah. Sherlock. How good it is to see you alive and well."

John jumps, having not realized that the amateur detective had awoken, and spins to stare at the younger man through the room's window. There Sherlock sat, every bit as disgruntled as John can remember, and pouts at his older brother, "Mycroft, why the hell am I still here?" The British Government genuinely smiles at his younger brother and says, "Surely you remember what you did to get here, brother mine." Sherlock's pout deepens, "I was perfectly fine! Shouldn't you be out overthrowing a country, or something?" He pauses for a moment before his face turns into a fierce scowl. Knowing that he will not like the answer, Sherlock sarcastically questions, "So, how long will I have to stay?" Mycroft allows one more soft smile before he goes back to his cool demeanor, "Three days, but I will pull some strings and I will get you out sooner; however, I still want to keep you under surveillance." Sherlock snorts, "As if you've ever stopped." Mycroft gives him a pointed look and continues, "Now, you have two options. Either you come and stay with me for awhile," at Sherlock's immediate rejection, the elder Holmes pauses until Sherlock stops grousing and then continues, "Or, you can agree to allow a trained medical practitioner to watch over you." Sherlock snorts, "As if there is any guess which I will pick. I'll take the nurse, please."

"Well, how about a doctor?"

Sherlock turns quickly and stares at a nervous John Watson, wide-eyed and speechless. Mycroft mumbles something about coming back in an hour for the ebony haired man's answer, but he goes unheard and leaves without the two men's acknowledgement. With the elder Holmes' departure, all the air seemed to vacate the premises. Sherlock was the first to break eye contact as he whispers, "I'm sorry, John."

Out of all the things he expected to come out of cupid bowed lips, that was not one of them. John stares in bewilderment as he stutters out, "I...uh…w-what?" The sleuth lets out a quivering breath and turns red-rimmed eyes on his blogger, "I said I'm sorry. You do know how I hate repeating myself." The younger man was clearly trying to lighten the situation with humor, but it became obvious that he failed miserably as his tears began to fall.

John, not knowing what else to do, raises his hand and rushes forward to comfort his lover, but stops when the sleuth flinches in response. He lowers his hand and his voice to a calm whisper of reassurance as he says, "No. God, no. Love, you have absolutely nothing to be sorry about. If anyone should apologize, it should be me."

When the tears refused to stop falling and the detective's eyes turn to disbelief, John lets out a remorseful sigh and pulls a chair up beside the bed. John no longer tries to reach out and touch the ebony haired man, keeping a safe distance between them, as he softly says, "Sherlock, listen, what I said to you, I didn't mean. I will never mean it. I was angry and, like the idiot you so often tell me that I am, I said something I will always regret until the day I die."

The child-like detective's eyes continue to shine as he quietly tries to say, "But you said—," before John interrupts, "I know what I said, Sherlock, but I didn't mean it. You are the most precious thing in this world to me, and for making you feel like otherwise will forever haunt me. You are brilliant, love." The younger man blushes at the familiar praise, but looks away with an air of melancholy as he says, "It's okay, John. You don't have to try and make me feel better. I've always known that I am a freak. It was wrong of me to assume otherwise."

The blogger cautiously reaches for the detective's angular face until he can gently lay his palm on Sherlock's cheek and he tenderly turns the genius' head. Bright verdigris eyes stare deeply into dark blue as John tries to show the young man the he is genuinely penitent for his sins as he bares his heart, "Sherlock, love, you are not a freak. I did not mean it when I said that you were. I was mad. I wasn't even mad at you. I let my anger accumulate from the divorce and finding out that the child I thought was mine, wasn't. I had been letting it build and build and build until it burst out from me. Still, that's no excuse. I shouldn't have said what I did. You are the last person who deserved what I did to you. Especially after all that you have done for me. You have saved me more times then I will ever know. You fixed me when I came back from Afghanistan a broken army doctor with a busted shoulder and a psychosomatic limp. Yes, your fall hurt me. I was alive, but I wasn't living during those two years that you were gone, but when you came back, I could finally _breathe_ again. You dismantled Moriarty's web in order to save the ones you loved.

"I will not tell you that you are a saint. We both know that's not true. You have your faults, and, God knows I have mine, but, love, you are a treasure. I love you because of your faults, not despite them. You care so deeply and I know it hurts you. I selfishly used that against you all because of misplaced anger. I will not ask for your forgiveness because I do not deserve it. I am selfish, I have a short temper, and I can't keep up with your train of thought most of the time, but if you'll still have me, I want to make this right by you. I will try everything within my power to make this right because I don't want to lose you. I don't want to love anyone else."

Sherlock stared at the other man for what seemed like an eternity, searching for any deceit or falsehood, before he slowly reached out with elegant digits to grasp John's smaller, sturdier hand, "You mean that?" The army blogger hesitantly smiles and says, "Of course I do. Every word." Verdigris eyes gaze into deep blue as a delicate, pale thumb gently traces worn and battered knuckles.

"You may not be asking for forgiveness, but I will freely give it to you."

John felt his eyes well up at those words. He doesn't deserve it. He doesn't deserve Sherlock. Not after everything he has done, but damn, he sure as hell won't question it. The blogger seems to deflate with relief as he breathes out an almost inaudible, "Thank you." The gentle sweep across battered knuckles never stops, but an odd expression settles over the detective's features. John tenses.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?"

The ebony haired man tries to turn away, but John's hand against the other man's cheek effectively keeps angular features in place as he asks, "Please?" Sherlock wrestles with something and drops his eyes to look at anything other than the army doctor as he haltingly says, "You aren't going to leave?" The army doctor's heart breaks for the amateur sleuth and guilt once again rushes through him as he realizes he is the cause of it, "Of course I won't, love. I will always stay with you." Here he pauses momentarily and then tentatively says, "If you'll have me, that is."

Verdigris eyes snap to sapphire blue as he incredulously replies, "Of course. Obviously." The pair shares a small smile. John gently caresses one prominent cheekbone, gazes down at cupid bowed lips, looks back up at Sherlock, and quirks an eyebrow. Instead of answering, the detective slowly inches forward to place a chaste kiss against his blogger's mouth. Mycroft, of course, decides at that moment to return.

"Ah. I see things are back to normal. How dull." Mycroft's face is set in an almost impenetrable mask of indifference, but his eyes are full of uncharacteristic relief and warmth. "You are free to go. I assume you have made a decision?"

Sherlock confidently replies, "I want to stay with John."

Mycroft nods his head, "Of course, brother mine. Do not hesitate to call, and please call Mummy. You know how she worries." Mycroft walks toward the doorway and lingers there for a moment before quietly saying, "Also…your loss would break my heart. Please, do try to take care of yourself." With that, the British Government leaves the room.

Sherlock turns to John and incredulously questions, "What the hell am I supposed to do with that?!" The blogger smiles and kisses the younger man on the cheek, "Nothing, love. Now, come on. Let's get out of here.

* * *

Despite countless days of reassurance and months of whispered apologies after each and every nightmare, Sherlock could not stop his reactions, no matter how illogical he found them. John noticed. Of course he did, but he would not comment on them. He would get this sad, guilty look in his eyes that proclaimed a deep regret that had been uttered too many times to count. It was four months later that everything changed.

Sherlock and John were running down darkened alleyways trying to catch a murder who had already killed twice before. In the end, the perpetrator's capture was anticlimactic. The dynamic duo cornered the killer at a dead end, and with one swift tackle delivered by Dr. Watson the murderer was neutralized. As Lestrade and the rest of New Scotland Yard arrived to arrest the killer, the amateur detective and his loyal blogger were giving their statements to another officer. When they had finished, as per usual, Sherlock basked in the knowledge of another case solved by indulging in several pleased smiles. His face fell, however, when he heard what Sergeant Donovan had to say to Anderson: "He really does get off on it. Look at the Freak's smug smile."

John's rage was all consuming but it left just as quickly as it came when he took one look at Sherlock's face. His expression was closed-off and guarded, but it was the way that verdigris eyes looked to John as if he would join in the mockery.

' _I've worked too hard to fix what I've done. I'm not going to let some jealous cow destroy everything I've worked for,_ ' the army doctor thought. He turned to the young detective and gave him a soft smile before glaring at Sergeant Donovan and Anderson, "Excuse me, Sally, but judging by the state of your clothes and knees, it appears to me that you've been doing more than just scrubbing New Scotland Yard's floors. What would Lestrade say if he knew that two of the _finest_ members of Scotland Yard were partaking in such deplorable behavior? If you two were actually doing your jobs instead of—how did you put it—getting off at crime scenes, you wouldn't need Sherlock's help." When the adulterous pair only sat in stunned silence, John turns to the amateur detective, sweetly smiles, and says, "Come on, love. I'm hungry. Is Chinese alright with you?"

The ebony haired sleuth smiles and nods his head. As the pair makes their way through the building and outside to hail a cab, John gently takes his detective's hand into his smaller, tanner digits. Sherlock looks down and stares at their entwined hands until the blogger quietly questions, "Problem?" The younger man looks up into dark blue eyes as he smiles and says, "No, it's fine. It's all fine."

* * *

 **I am freeeee! Not because of the fanfiction. I've been so busy lately, I hastily read through this (so if you find tons of mistakes, that's why) so that I could post. I run a little Etsy shop and I received two new orders and they took up my time. Also, to teacupsandspoons, I didn't have time to fix any of those wonderful things you told me about, so for that I apologize. Hopefully I'll eventually get around to fixing them. Also, this chapter is super long for me... O.o I couldn't think of a way to split it up, so...have a long chapter!**

 **Anyway! This concludes Before the Fall! I hope you enjoyed this ride because I sure did! I am very proud of this fanfiction and I want to thank each and every one of you for commenting, bookmarking, and giving me kudos. They are such blessings for me. It's so encouraging and it makes me so happy, so with all the sincerity I can muster... THANK YOU!**


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